Kiss Me, I'm Irish!
by Gabs
Summary: Sark and Sloane are on the run from the CIA... (more spoiler support group hilarity; 2nd place in the SD-1 April challenge!)
1. Kiss Me, I'm Irish

Kiss Me, I'm Irish!  
by the SD-1 Spoiler Support Group  
Disclaimer: They don't belong to us, and we don't claim they do, though we sometimes have strange little delusions of adequacy... anyway, we have sporks, we're definitely not afraid to use them, so don't sue! Enjoy!  
  
  
  
"Well Sarkey, the CIA probably knows we're here. We need to flee the country."  
  
"Mr. Sloane, please, please tell me that I'm hearing things."  
  
"Now why on earth would I do something like that?" Sloane pondered.  
  
"Sir, if I'm not mistaken, which I rarely am, I could have sworn that I heard you call me 'Sarkey'."  
  
"Oh…I…I said that out loud? Well, that isn't the point. We need to get out of here. Where should we go?"   
  
"Oh I don't care! Just pick a place."  
  
"No Sark, I asked you."  
  
"Why are you so intent on me picking our hideout? Pick one yourself!"  
Sloane didn't think that it was the best time to tell Sark that he couldn't remember all the countries they were wanted in.  
  
"Mr. Sark-don't make me call you Sarkey again- I'm in charge here and if I tell you to select a location, then you sure as hell better do it!"  
  
"Fine! Why don't we just hang out in England for a while? I heard rainy season's over."  
  
"Good thinking Mr. Sark. Good thinking indeed." Sark just shook his head and tried to remember why he was working with this guy again.  
  
Later…  
  
"Great! Just great. This isn't where we're supposed to be! Arvin Sloane, this is your fault!" Sark shouted, not even caring about the spit that just went flying into Sloane's face.  
  
"My fault? You picked this place. I am completely not at fault."  
  
"Yes, I chose England. This is Ireland!"  
  
"So?"  
  
"If you hadn't decided to kill the pilot we would have been there by now!"  
  
"Hmm. Good point. At least we still have the flight attendant."   
  
"No we don't. You killed her too."  
  
"The passengers?"  
  
"Dead."  
  
"Cheer up little buddy. Look at all these lovely sheep all around us!"  
  
"Don't ever-ever-ever call me little buddy. You know about that thing I have with Gilligan's Island.  
"  
"Sheesh…don't get your panties in a bundle now." Sark decided not to say anything about that. "And you said there was no rain here. It's pouring!"  
  
"It's raining because we're not in the place we're supposed to be! And that's your fault!"  
  
"Now, now…let's not … hey wait a minute… is it just me or did your voice change?"  
  
"Well duh. Did you think that British accent was real? See, in order to seem intimidating and sophisticated, I switch accents whenever I enter a different country." Sark explained.  
  
"I don't get it."  
  
"Oh it's very easy to understand…I have the whole thing planned out. In the US my accent is British, but when I go to Britain you don't expect me to speak like everyone else do you? So that's when I put on a Russian accent. In Russia I speak with a southern drawl. But when I go to Guam, Spain, or Timbuktu, I…"  
  
Sloane wondered when he was going to finish. He had lost him some where around his Russian accent, and he really wanted to pat the sheep.  
  
"Now, what we need is a plan since all of contacts are officially dead, thanks to you, yet again," Sark announced as he started to type away on his laptop.   
  
"So, I was thinking that perhaps – SHITE!"  
  
"What?" Sloane asked innocently.  
  
"Why are you precisely one and one half inches away from my nose?" Sark inquired, extremely alarmed.  
  
"You're Irish," Sloane stated.  
  
"I'm not!" Sark wailed, not entirely sure where this conversation was going; he sighed because he never knew where conversations were going ever since he had teamed up with Sloane.  
  
"I have to kiss you; you're Irish. It's a fact, now stop wailing; you'll scare the sheep," Sloane stated simply.  
  
"What? I AM NOT IRISH! We're in Ireland, therefore I'm Russian. Now under no circumstances in the plan will we be going to France," Sark said, backing away from Sloane.  
  
"Why not?" Sloane asked.  
  
"Because in France I'm Irish," Sark said, shaking his head.  
  
"We're going to France!" Sloane declared.  
  
"NO! Mr. Sloane, may I remind you that our relationship is strictly professional?" Sark asked.  
  
"No, you may not," Sloane snapped.  
  
Sark pouted and returned to his laptop.  
  
After another few moments had passed, Sloane was yet again one and one half inches away from Sark's nose.  
  
"Go. Away. We've already had this discussion, and frankly, sir, this is starting to remind me of my Gilligan's Island complex," Sark said as he started to back away again.  
  
"I have proof that you're Irish this time," Sloane announced.  
  
"What?! There is no proof that I'm Irish!" Sark said; he continued to back away until he stumbled and fell backwards over a sheep with Sloane still in pursuit of him. He shook his head to make sure his hair was at its normal level of messy and not the I-just-fell-backwards-over-a-sheep level of messy. He then noticed a piece of paper now attached to the sheep.  
  
"Kiss me, I'm Irish," Sark read aloud, suddenly feeling quite nauseous, "I'm Russian! Stop this!" He then stomped like an angry child because… well, he could.  
  
"Fine, fine, just go work on your little plan. I'll talk to the sheep…" Sloane said, pouting.  
  
"Finally, a good idea, well except for the part about talking to the sheep," Sark announced as he returned to his laptop yet again.  
  
After another few moments had passed…  
  
"You know that Sydney doesn't like you, right?" Sloane asked.  
  
Sark suddenly felt his evil, little heart break into tiny pieces. "And just how do you know that?" Sark asked defensively.  
  
"Because I'm Sloane – I know everything," Sloane announced.  
  
"Eh, not really. You think I'm Irish," Sark stated.  
  
"Shut up. Sydney doesn't like you," Sloane growled.  
  
"How do you know?" Sark asked.  
  
"I talked to her," Sloane stated.  
  
"Oh… well why doesn't she like me?" Sark inquired.  
  
"You fell on her," Sloane explained.  
  
"That's the incorrect preposition. I fell –for- her, not –on- her," Sark stated.  
  
"No, you fell on her," Sloane pressed.  
  
"I did not- wait, when did you talk to Sydney?" Sark asked.  
  
"While you were typing the plan…" Sloane stated.  
  
"But Sydney isn't here…" Sark said, suddenly frightened.  
  
Sloane pointed at the sheep that Sark had previously fallen backwards over.  
  
"You didn't name the sheep Sydney..." Sark murmured.  
  
Sloane nodded and grinned his disgusting grin, "Sydney likes me. And you know what?"  
  
"…What?" Sark asked.  
  
"She let me kiss her; she's Irish," Sloane said, beaming.  
  
"Mr. Sloane that's sick, really, really sick," Sark said, shaking his head, "In fact, I can't think of anything worse than that."  
  
"Really?" Sloane asked.  
  
"Yes, really," Sark replied.  
  
"Ahem… Sarkey-poo," Sloane called.  
  
"Oh my Sydney… never mind. That is much worse, sir…"   
Sloane grinned.  
  
"This might be a bad time to bring up the plan…" Sark murmured.  
  
"What is it?" Sloane asked.  
  
"We… we need to pose as an old married couple. But, sir, I don't want to go through with the plan! You're scaring me, sir!" Sark wailed.  
  
"I'm assuming you'll be the girl then since you squeal like one," Sloane commented.  
  
"Just how do you know what I squeal like?" Sark asked, and then he got eerily silent. "Oh shite…"


	2. Riding Sydney

-----Meanwhile----------------  
  
"Well congratulations Sydney. Once again you let Sloane get away. Can't you run faster or shoot more…or do whatever the heck you do better?"  
  
"I can. I just choose not to."  
  
"Excuse me? Must I remind you that this is a matter of national security? And you cannot just…" Sydney was regretting saying what she did. Now Kendall wasn't going to shut up.

  
"Yes Sir. I know. I shouldn't have…"

  
"Don't try to cut me off Agent Bristow. I wasn't finished!" Sydney sighed as Kendall continued with his lecture.  
  
A great amount of time had passed. Sydney wasn't sure how long exactly, but Kendall was still yelling about who-knows-what. She wished her cell phone would ring.   
  
_Why does it always ring at the wrong times?_ She wondered.   
  
Suddenly, it rang. 

  
"THANK GOD!...er... I mean, Sydney Bristow. Hello?"  
  


Nobody was on the other end.

  
_Oh, I get it now…it's one of those neat text messages! _thought Sydney… _I've been wanting somebody to send me one of those._  
  
**Stuck in Ireland with Sloane. Sydney hates me. Trying to kill me. Send help-Sark.**  
  
"Well that made no sense. Here Kendall, do you know what this means?" wondered a very confused Sydney.

  
"Um, no… maybe it's a code. Show it to Marshall he'll figure it out." Kendall was just so puzzled by this he forgot what he was yelling at Sydney about. Sydney walked towards Marshall's office shaken and distraught.  
  
But back in Ireland Sloane and Sark were having even bigger problems of their own…

"Ahem, as I was saying, Mr. Sloane, perhaps we should pose as an old, married, gay couple. It certainly won't be hard for you to act the part…" Sark murmured.  
  
"But… we don't look like an old, married, gay couple," Sloane stated, matter-of-factly. "We need disguises."  
  
"Agreed, but where in Ireland in the middle of a herd of sheep are we going to find disguises?" Sark asked; suddenly something caught his eye. In the distance, there was a large sign. "For all your old, married, gay couple disguising needs, come to Old, Married, Gay Couple Fashions in Paris-" Sark started, then looked completely appalled and frightened.  
  
"Paris?" Sloane asked, as he looked toward the sign Sark had just discovered, "FRANCE! We're going to FRANCE! And you'll be IRISH!"  
  
"Shite…" Sark said, hanging his head in defeat, "but how will we get to France?"  
  
"Well, Mr. Sark, in circumstances such as these, there is only ONE thing to do," Sloane said. "You'll have to ride Sydney."  
  
Suddenly Sark turned about twenty different shades of red and his pupil were heart-shaped, "Oh Mr. Sloane! I've been waiting all this time for such a mission! Thank you! Oh where is the beautiful Agent Bristow for me to seduce?!"  
  
Sloane blinked in utter confusion then pointed to the previously mentioned Sydney-sheep who nodded her head and gave a loving 'baa' to Sark.  
  
"NO! Sydney Bristow, sir, Sydney Bristow!! Not the Sydney sheep!" Sark wailed.  
  
"Calm down, Mr. Sark. Sydney the sheep told me she has magical flying powers," Sloane stated.  
  
"Right, when pigs fly…" Sark murmured.  
  
"Sydney says pigs can't fly, but sheep can," Sloane said, hopping on the sheep's back, "don't just stand there, we've got to get to France!"  
  
So Sark too hopped on the sheep's back, and they flew and flew and flew until…  
  
"FRANCE! We're officially in France!" Sloane squealed.  
  
"Sir, I didn't know ye squeal; aye, and I didn't want to know ye squeal," Sark murmured, suddenly Irish.  
  
"HA! You're IRISH!" Sloane said, moving in for his long-awaited kiss. However, once he passed the one and one half inches mark from last time, he discovered he was simply nose-to-nose with Sark. In fact, Sark himself discovered this fact and squealed girlishly.  
  
"Ye can't kiss me! Ye nose is too big! HA! It's physically impossible for ye to kiss me!" Sark chirped.  
  
Sloane pouted and decided to watch the in-flight movie "When Meese Fly" until they arrived in Paris.  
  



	3. Cracking the Code

Meanwhile…………  
  
Sydney stood by as Marshall attempted to crack the apparent code that had appeared on her phone.  
  
"I've got it!" he finally declared jubilantly.  
  
"What's it mean?" Sydney asked eagerly.  
  
"Well, it says you need to gather 47 sporks, put them in a blue plastic bag, go down and speak to your mother for precisely 2.3472/6 minutes, and then go to a sheep filled field in the middle of Ireland and wait."  
  
"What? Do they even make blue plastic bags?" Marshall blinked.  
  
"That's your biggest concern?" he questioned, thinking of all the other oddities contained within the message.  
  
"Oh… umm… what am I waiting for in that Irish field?" Marshall shrugged.  
"No clue. But hey, while you're there… think you can get Colin Farrell's autograph for me?"  
  
"I'll try," she promised. She paused to think about something.  
  
"Wait a minute… where would I find 47 sporks?" Marshall thought for a long moment.  
  
"Well… Taco Bell has them."  
  
"But would they appreciate me taking 47?"   
  
"Who knows? I guess you'll find out." Sydney nodded slowly.   
  
"Right… hey, where's Vaughn?" Marshall shrugged again.  
  
"Ok. I guess I'll just go get my 47 sporks now…" Sydney wandered off to find Weiss and Dixon.  
  
"Do either of you know where Vaughn is?" They both shook their heads, and she sighed.  
  
"Fine. I need you both to help me on a mission."  
  
"What kind of mission?" Dixon asked curiously.  
  
"I don't remember any long, boring meetings…" Weiss stated.  
  
"I know. This isn't CIA sanctioned, but it's really important! Let's go, I'll explain on the way…" she led the three of them out, not noticing Marshall trying to attract her attention.  
  
"What's going on?" Jack asked. Marshall explained how he had cracked the code and sent Sydney on her unsanctioned mission.  
  
"Thing is, I just realize that it wasn't encrypted after all. It really was just Sark asking for help," he concluded. Jack sighed.  
  
"I don't believe it. I'll catch her and set her straight."  
  
"Good. So you'll stop her from going to Ireland?" Jack blinked.  
  
"Nooo… I'll tell her to get an autograph for me too!" With that, he ran out hurriedly, trying to catch Sydney. A moment later, he ran back in.  
  
"Better idea… she has to come back here to see Derevko anyway, so I'll just talk to her here!" With that, he ran down towards Irina's cell. A moment later, he reappeared.  
  
"Oh, and for the record, if you tell Sydney anything about this… you'll never need to wear boots again!" With that, he once again ran towards Irina's cell. Marshall stared after him.  
  
"I don't wear boots anyway…" he mused to himself, before returning to his game of Yahoo! Pool.  



	4. 47 Sporks and a Herd of Flying Meese

Meanwhile, in Paris…

"We have our disguises. Can we leave now?" Sark pleaded. Sighing, Sloane nodded. He was still upset over being unable to kiss Sark, who was obviously Irish.

"We'll go back to Ireland, but only because Sydney wants to! Now, climb on top of her and we can get going." A giddy smile crossed Sark's face until he recalled that Sydney was the sheep. With a deflated sigh, he clambered aboard the Sydney-sheep, and they were off.

Back in LA

Sydney, Weiss, and Dixon returned from their hazardous spork gathering mission, and Sydney ran down towards Irina's cell. Jack caught her.

"No time! Marshall decoded it incorrectly, there's no need to speak to your mother. Just get to Ireland, and be sure to get me an autograph too!" Sydney blinked.

"YOU want Colin Farrell's autograph?" Jack looked around nervously.

"To… uh… sell on eBay, of course." Sydney nodded.

"Of course. Ok, I'm off!" she turned and ran out, grabbing Weiss and Dixon on the way.

"Don't forget the autographs!" Jack and Marshall called after her. She waved at them and headed for a CIA plane that was inconspicuously parked on the street.

"Can either of you fly?" she questioned. Weiss and Dixon both shook their heads. She sighed.

"Oh well. I'm sure we'll make it eventually." She was starting the plane when Vaughn came running.

"Wait for me!"

"Can you fly?"

"No."

"Sorry, no time to wait!" Sydney began to pull away, and Vaughn leaped into the plane.

"Syd!!" 

"Sorry, but this is important! Sit down, I'll explain everything…"

Again, back to… somewhere over some ocean

As the Sydney-sheep continued her flight, Sark and Sloane each continued pouting, for their own reasons. A few hours later, she finally landed in the sheep field from which they had begun. Sark blinked.

"Is that a plane?"

"Sydney is not a plane!" Sloane said indignantly.

"Of course not. Over there!" he pointed. Sloane turned to see.

"Why yes, it is a plane. How odd." A moment later, the door of the plane burst open, and Sydney, Vaughn, Dixon, and Weiss came running out, as well as a random CIA guard who had somehow made his way onto the plane as well.

"Grab them!" Sydney shouted. She opened her bag of sporks and began throwing them at Sloane and Sark, who were knee high in sheep and couldn't run away. Dixon and Weiss tackled them, and pulled out handcuffs.

"Haha!" Sydney said triumphantly. She then looked at Vaughn.

"Hmm… I need to go get those autographs for my dad and Marshall. Will you come with me?" Vaughn nodded.

"Of course. Syd, you know I'd do anything for you." Sark narrowed his eyes and growled, upsetting the Sydney-sheep, who head-butted Weiss, knocking him out cold.

"You're in charge of those two!" Sydney called to Dixon as she and Vaughn ran off. Dixon waved at her, and turned to watch Sloane and Sark.

"This is your fault you know," Sloane said.

"How so?" Sark asked indignantly.

"You wanted to come back here."

"Well if you had gone to the correct place to start, this wouldn't be a problem!" They continued bickering, and Dixon was growing annoyed.

"Look, up in the sky! It's a herd of flying mooses!" Sloane and Sark both looked up anxiously.

"Where? Where?" Sloane asked frantically.

"Just kidding!" Dixon stated, bursting into laughter. Sloane and Sark both glared at him.

"You should've just let me kiss you," Sloane said to Sark a few moments later. This stopped Dixon's laughter, and he stared at them in confusion.

"No sir! It won't happen, ever!" Sark wailed.

"But Sarkey!" Sloane whined.

"No!"

"Please?"

"No!"

"Please?"

"No!"

"Please?"

"Stop it!" Dixon yelled. He pulled out the keys and unlocked the handcuffs.

"For the sake of my sanity, get out of here!" He grabbed Weiss, left a note for Sydney and Vaughn, and ran for the plane. A moment later, they were out of there. 

"See sir? I'm useful!" Sark stated.

"Right. Now, get on Sydney and we're going back to Paris. I don't like the disguises you picked out." Sark's face grew pale, and he swallowed audibly.

"Ok," he said meekly. Sloane grinned.

"You're going to be Irish."

"No!"

"Please?" They both got onto the sheep and began to fly away. Sydney and Vaughn returned to the field a few moments later.

"Sloane!" Sydney yelled in slow-mo. She and Vaughn could still hear the echoes of their argument.

"No!"

"Please?"

"No!"

"Please?"

"Damn it! We had them. What happened?" she wondered.

"Here's a note from Dixon. 'Driving me crazy, couldn't take it. I left your sporks for you though. Hop a sheep or plane back to LA. See you later!' What? That's crazy!" Vaughn sighed.

"Well, let's get a sheep and get moving," Sydney said sadly.

"We'll get them someday!" Vaughn swore. As he and Sydney took a sheep and began the long trip home, they could still hear two words echoing in the distance…

"No!"

"Please?"

Well, that's it. We may be doing a sequel… we don't know yet. And… this RR won 2nd place in the SD-1 April challenge!!  Yay!!


End file.
